![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Fortune's Just a One-Night Stand – Part Four
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch
Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART THREE - ON LJ | ON DW
____________________________________________
The late afternoon light gilded Neal’s hair, his brows, even his eyelashes. It kissed the arch of his nose and the curve of his jaw. Peter wondered if he should be jealous of the sun as it began to sink behind the mountains.
Neal looked up from his sketchpad, smiled at him and all thoughts of jealousy evaporated. There was wonder in that look; joy, too. Peter smiled back and the light in Neal’s eyes glowed brighter.
An odd feeling settled around his heart, something familiar but so long forgotten that he almost didn’t recognize it.
Happiness.
Sitting by the fire and watching Neal work, Peter thought life couldn’t be more perfect. No cares, no worries, just him and his lover.
A faint clatter interrupted his pleasant thoughts. Neal had tossed his pencil on the table. “Ah, I think I’m done. Losing the light.”
“Can I see?”
“It’s just something preliminary, nothing important.”
“I’d like to see – you’ve never shown me your work.”
Neal got a wary look on his face and licked his lips. “I’m not really accustomed to sharing at this stage.”
“Okay – I can understand.” Peter did and tried to hide his disappointment.
But Neal must have seen something, because he abruptly thrust the sketchpad at him. “Like I said, it’s just a sketch.”
Peter looked at the drawing and was awed. The sketch of the view from the terrace was both simple and detailed; the ice building along the shoreline and fluid, the bare trees dipping into the dark waters of Lake George were mere suggestions of their summer greatness, except for a solitary leaf still clinging to a branch. He was abruptly reminded of something he read, that drawing was the most honest and intimate of mediums.
“Neal – this is incredible.”
“You think so?” Neal sounded doubtful.
“Yeah – I absolutely think so. Would you – could I …” Now Peter was a little embarrassed. “I’d like to have this, have it framed.”
“Really? It’s just a drawing. I was going to do a watercolor study of the scene when I got back to my studio.”
“You can, but I want this. Okay?”
Neal took the pad out of his hand, picked up his pencil and signed the drawing with a flourish. “It’s yours.” He leaned over, “And so is this.” Neal kissed him.
That kiss could have escalated into something more, but his stomach rumbled. “Sorry, other appetites are calling.”
Neal kissed him again and Peter could taste his smile. “Okay, but our reservations aren’t for another few hours.”
“What can I say, all the exercise today has made me hungry.”
“What exercise?” Neal actually smirked at him. The morning’s ride hadn’t gone quite as planned, mostly because Neal distracted him.
“How long has it been since you’ve been on horseback?” Neal had called out from the bedroom.
“A few months. I like to come up here in the late fall, after the tourists have gone.”
Walking back into the suite’s main room, Neal stopped and stared at him. “That’s what you’re wearing?” He sounded disappointed.
Peter couldn’t understand Neal’s disappointment. He had on jeans, boot and a heavy sweater. “Why? What’s the matter?”
Neal licked his lips, just the tiniest peep of his tongue. “You said you did show jumping. I thought you’d be …”
“I’d be what, Neal?”
“Wearing boots.”
“I am.” Puzzled, Peter looked at his feet; the Timberlands he had on weren’t the best for riding, but was cold outside and there was snow on the trails.
“Not those kind of boots.”
Peter met Neal’s gaze and to his amazement, his cheeks were bright red. Oh.
“You like boots?” Peter never thought of himself as particularly kinky, but Neal was sparking all sorts of ideas.
“Boots, gloves, you in those really tight pants.” If anything, Neal turned even redder.
Peter took a deep breath. “A riding crop is part of the uniform, too.”
Neal moaned. “Don’t do this to me.”
They didn’t make it to the stables that morning.
His stomach rumbled again and Peter clapped a hand over his belly. “Sorry.”
Neal chuckled. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. We don’t have to stick to a schedule, you know. It’s not like …” He paused, about to say something, then seemed to catch himself. “Like elementary school. If you want to go to dinner early, that leaves more time for other things this evening.”
“Other things?”
“Gin rummy, chess. Sex.” Neal picked up the telephone and without further consultation, changed their dinner reservations from the very continental 8 PM seating to one more favored by the blue-haired set.
Peter wasn’t sure he was happy about the change in plans, having dinner at six meant the conversation he needed to have with Neal was going to happen two hours sooner. He tried to talk himself out of it, of letting sleeping dogs lie, but he couldn’t. Something bad happened on Friday.
They had finished dinner and the second cup of espresso was probably unnecessary, more of a delaying tactic than anything. Neal smiled at him from the short distance across the table and Peter debated, yet again, about letting things go. He stared into the dregs in his cup, hoping to find some answers.
“Peter, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He looked up, a bit startled. “Neal?”
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he repeated. “And I need you to listen to everything before you react.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Neal grimaced and Peter couldn’t help but notice how the light had dimmed from his eyes. “The night we met –”
Once again, Peter wished he had pressed Elizabeth for more on Neal’s history. “Yeah?” He had no clue where this was going.
“Was the first-week anniversary of my release from prison.”
“Prison?” Peter repeated, feeling slow and stupid.
“Yes, prison. I had just gotten out of Sing-Sing.”
“That’s maximum security. That’s where they put murders,” Peter blurted out. Who the hell had he fallen for? “Does Elizabeth know?”
Neal nodded. “Yes, she does. And I’m not a murder. I really shouldn’t even have been sent there, but the US Attorney was able to convince the judge that I was a flight risk and the Federal Bureau of Prisons struck a deal with New York State. I did my four years there, instead of the minimum security facility at Otisville.”
“What did you do?”
“I was convicted on a charge of bond forgery.”
In the back of his head, behind the panicked clamoring, he realized that Neal hadn’t admitted to the crime. And who the hell forges bonds?
“You have to know, I hate guns, I hate violence. I never took anything from anyone who couldn’t afford to lose it. And like I told Elizabeth, I won’t do anything that is going to send me back there.” His words were impassioned, but the look on Neal’s face spoke volumes more. He was terrified.
Peter chose his words carefully. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I don’t want to keep pretending my past never happened. Not with you, not when there’s an ‘us’.” Neal reached out, slowly, giving Peter every chance to move away. He didn’t. Neal’s hand on top of his wrist was hot, sweaty, shaking. “I never want you to have a reason to distrust me.”
The perverse part of him wanted to blurt out, You’re a convicted felon, you stole from people. How could I ever trust you? But the man who woke up this morning with his face buried in Neal’s curls, his arms wrapped around him, realized that everyone deserved at least a second chance. “Okay.” He put a hand over Neal’s, stilling the tremors. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Peter didn’t know if he could ask Neal about what happened Friday night. Not now, not yet. Maybe never.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“So, things are with you are good?”
He had met Moz at the same coffee shop where he and Peter had their post-tryst rendezvous. Moz, in an odd fit of holiday spirit, was wearing a blue, white and silver wool hat with earflaps decorated with tiny menorahs.
Neal smiled. “Couldn’t be better.” It was a week since he and Peter had gotten back from Lake George, and the first time he’d seen Mozzie since October.
“I thought you’d be a natural. You’ve got the looks, the charm. Maybe if you’re lucky, some rich guy will fall head over heels and ask you to marry him.”
“Moz – that’s the plot from Pretty Woman.”
“Don’t be so gender-specific. No reason why it couldn’t work for you. You’re better looking than Julia Roberts, a little less horse-faced.”
Neal choked on his coffee. “I don’t need to have a client fall in love with me.”
“Hmmm, you’re happy just as you are?”
“Yeah.” Neal kept it simple. For some reason, he figured that Moz wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that he had fallen in love, just not with a sugar daddy.
“Your living situation all sorted out?” Moz had left town on a “project” just as he had started working for Elizabeth. He was pretty clear that he expected Neal to be gone from Donnerstag (a safe house that used to be a cellar for a German beer hall) before he got back. Of course, he never told Neal that he wasn’t going to be back until Christmas.
“Yeah – I’m living with one of El’s other…” What should he call Peter?
“Studs?”
Neal’s face grew hot. “Employees. He’d got a place up in Yorkville. A classic six.”
“Very nice. Escort work pays well, it seems.”
“It’s good enough. I’m clearing enough to rent some studio space in NoHo.”
“You’re serious about the art, really?”
“Yeah, I am. I have the time and the desire, especially since I don’t have to scrounge for a living.” And I don’t have to impress Kate.
“Hmm, well – I guess I figured this day would come.” Moz gave him that look, the one that made Neal always think of a myopic turtle.
“What day?”
“That you’d find your wings and fly out of the nest.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. But I couldn’t have done it without you. Hooking me up with Elizabeth solved a lot of my problems.”
Moz inclined his head regally. “I will accept all credit whenever and however it’s given.” He took a sip of his tea. “So, tell me about the guy who’s giving you house space on the Upper East Side.”
“Peter?” Neal really didn’t want to talk about him to Mozzie. It was all too new, too precious.
“Good name – solid.”
“That’s a nice way to describe him. Solid, grounded.”
“And yet he’s an escort.”
Neal shrugged. He wanted to say that Peter was so much more than that, but that would lead to other questions, ones Neal didn’t want to answer.
Moz seemed to catch on, and let that subject drop. Only to find another sore one. “Tell me, have you run into any old friends?”
Neal swallowed. “Yeah. The worst one possible.”
“Don’t tell me, Adler?”
“Yeah, Adler.”
“Did he create a scene?”
“No – that’s not how Vincent works.”
“No, he’s more like a sapper, digging and digging until he’s compromised your very foundation.” Mozzie peered at him, owlishly. “So, what happened?”
Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him, but his friend had a way of worming the details out of him. “He made it clear that he was interested in picking up where he had dropped things ten years ago.”
“In other words, he’d like to go back to crushing your spirit, grinding you into dust smaller than subatomic particles.”
Neal nodded. “He seemed rather eager to get started.”
“I hope you spat in his face.
Neal said nothing, finding the stained rim of his coffee cup fascinating.
“Neal – you let him?”
“Moz –”
“If you tell me I wouldn’t understand, I’m going to walk out.”
“You really wouldn’t understand. He’s magnetic, and it’s like I’m caught in his orbit.”
“You’re mixing up astronomy with physics, mon frère. Wait, make that physics with astronomy.”
“You know what I mean, Moz.”
“So stay out of his way.”
Neal knew that was easier said than done, unless he stopped working for Elizabeth. “I’ll do my best.” Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “How’s Sally?”
“She’s good. Sends her regards.” Moz check the time on his phone. “And speaking of Sally, I need to sally forth.” Moz chuckled at his own witticism. “Since you’re earning the big bucks now, you can pay for this.”
“Gee, thanks, Moz. You’re a prince.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Moz, as oblivious to Neal’s sarcasm as ever, shouldered his messenger bag and toddled off, leaving Neal with the check.
Neal held up his cup and the waitress came over with the pot to refill it. As much as he liked Moz, there were times when his company was a little too much. And yet, he could have used a friendly ear, someone who wasn’t invested, someone impartial. Well, that actually did rule Moz out.
He looked out at the city street, festive in the usual pre-Christmas way and couldn’t keep his thoughts from going back to Peter and their weekend upstate. Despite his initial shock over Neal’s confession, he came to terms with it very quickly. He didn’t dance around the subject and he didn’t pry. But he did have questions, none of which were unexpected.
Peter had asked, “What was the worst thing about prison?”
He gave him the same answer he gave Elizabeth the first time they met, “The boredom.” Of course Peter, who masked a tender heart, wanted to know if Neal was okay, though he never outright asked him if he’d been raped. Neal had been candid and honest.
“I was fine, took a bad beating the first week, but I had a solitary cell and I paid the guards well to watch my back after that.”
Peter nodded gravely and let it go. One thing did surprise him. Peter was curious about his criminal past, his alleged misdeeds. Neal had a hard time not bragging, but telling him about his capers could come back to haunt him. So he kept quiet, playing down his years in Europe, although he did share one or two stories about Diana Berrigan, the FBI agent who dogged his trail for so many years.
That night, in bed, he told Peter about the first time he met the agent who finally caught him.
“I can’t believe you walked right up to her, the money from a forged bond in your hand, and gave her a lollipop.”
“A lime-green sucker.”
“You were insane.”
“No, I was young, foolish and stupidly proud that the FBI was on my tail.”
He also had to tell Peter about the time in Venice. “The Carabinari was on the left, Agent Berrigan was on the right. A pincer movement – she must have studied the classics.”
“I don’t think they teach Hannibal’s tactics at the FBI Academy.”
Neal had chuckled, of course Peter would know that he was thinking of the Battle of Cannae.
“So, how did you escape?”
“I jumped. The Rialto isn’t all that high and there was a very convenient vaporetto passing underneath. I didn’t even get wet. You should have seen her face, though.”
“You liked her.”
“Yeah. She was smart; she kept me on my toes. I was smarter, though.”
“And yet, she caught you.”
Neal had grimaced. This was heading into territory he didn’t want to share. “She did only because I made a mistake. It cost me.”
Peter kissed him. “Well, even criminal geniuses make mistakes.”
Mistakes. Yeah, he’d made plenty of them. Kate wasn’t his biggest mistake. Nor was Matthew Keller. Both were rounding errors when compared to the mistake he made with Vincent Adler. Actually, the mistake wasn’t even with Adler, it was coming into the man’s orbit.
Moz had thought they could take a bite out of the Adler pie; he had spotted a weakness in his financial system and wanted to use Neal as his front man. Neal worked his way into Adler’s organization, caught the man’s eye and within a week, was completely and utterly seduced.
It wasn’t sex, not at first. It was his personality. Neal had been too inexperienced to recognize just what Adler was, just what he was. He flirted with Kate, he seduced her away from her boring fiancé, but at the same time, Vincent was seducing him, training him. Remaking him.
At one point, Moz said he was becoming a mini-Adler and Neal hadn’t thought that was a bad thing. Of course, he hadn’t recognized the damage as it was happening. He hadn’t seen how he was losing himself. Even the first time Adler fucked him, when he crawled to the man like a slave, like a dog, it all seemed so natural, so perfectly in keeping with whom he was, who Vincent was. When Adler was done fucking him, he wasn’t so crude as to toss money at him – not like what happened at the gala – the payment for services was more subtle. A new title, a raise, a bonus on top of that, bespoke suits from his own personal tailor.
The transformation wasn’t quick, but it had been complete.
And now Peter seemed to be caught in Adler’s web. They had left Lake George on Monday morning, and Peter let him drive back, after extracting his promise to stay within the posted speed limit. They were just south of Albany when Peter’s cell rang; it was Elizabeth. The audible half of the conversation chilled him to the bone.
“Elizabeth, you know my feelings about out of town assignments.”
“Tell him no.”
“I don’t care that he’s willing to pay double my rate, I’m not going to Grand Cayman with him for Christmas on his private jet. In fact, I’m not working that whole week.”
Neal raised his eyebrows at that. Maybe Peter’s years with Elizabeth earned him the right to turn down assignments.
“I am not interested. Full stop.”
Neal sneaked a look at Peter; his tone of voice was becoming impatient, aggravated.
“Yes, I know just who he is, and I don’t really care. None of that impresses me.”
“You can tell him that if he continues to push, I’m going to call it quits for everything.”
Even over the roar of the Corvette’s engine, Neal could hear Elizabeth screech her dismay.
“Calm down, El. Just calm down. I’m not quitting you, I’m just be calling a halt to Wednesdays with Adler. Maybe it’s time. He’s getting too demanding.”
It was a good thing that the New York State Thruway was empty this time of day, because Neal hit the brakes hard at Adler’s name and had to fight to keep control of the car. Peter ended the call and told him to pull over and change places.
He tried not to brood about Peter and Adler for the rest of the trip home, but the problem was never far from his mind. He hadn’t forgotten that Peter had been Adler’s date at the Ballet Gala on Friday, but he’d been too consumed with his own encounter with that bastard to focus on it. Now, hearing that Peter had a regular appointment with Vincent, and Vincent was pressing him for more time made him ill.
He couldn’t talk to Mozzie about this. That meant telling him about his feelings for Peter, their too-new relationship. He certainly couldn’t talk to Elizabeth, who was clearly concerned with her revenue stream, although he now worried that Adler could bring all sorts of pressure to bear against her if she couldn’t convince Peter to comply.
“Another refill?”
Neal looked up. The waitress was standing over him with a mostly empty pot and an annoyed expression on her face. He’d been sitting at the booth for over an hour with just the coffee; he didn’t blame her.
“No, thanks.” He gave the woman his brightest, most winning smile. It worked. Her lips twitched and she smiled back. He left her an outsized tip, paid for his coffee and Mozzie’s tea and headed home.
He still didn’t know what he was going to do about Peter. And Adler.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Yes, mom. Yes. Yes, mom. I’ll be there, I promise. No, no last minute emergencies. I’ve already left the office and I’m getting my hair done. Yes – a color and a cut. Something special? Like what? An updo? Mom…”
Diana listened to her mother go on and on, barely letting her get a word in. Her parents were in town this weekend, a combination holiday visit and (at least for her mother) a marathon shopping session. She’d been gently coerced into attending a Christmas party at the Danish Consulate. Her father had once been posted to Denmark and was good friends with the current ambassador.
That said ambassador’s daughter was a recently divorced lesbian had nothing to do with anything, her mother insisted. Diana hadn’t believed a word of that, but gave in anyway; figuring some emergency would come up and she’d be able to cancel at the last moment. Except that the emergency never materialized, and here she was, getting the full treatment – hair, nails, pedicure. It wasn’t like she didn’t take care of herself, but she had better things to do with her time.
There was an unsolved string of thefts from art galleries all over Manhattan – all slash and grabs like the one at the Lampson. Just last Sunday, after a Motherwell disappeared from the Colley Gallery, the Feds started fighting with the locals over jurisdiction, and it seemed that this case was going to land on her list, whether she wanted it or not. But right now, it still belonged to the NYPD. It was up to her bosses to sort it out.
And truthfully, she had other – more critical – cases on her sheet. The SEC was looking into Vincent Adler, again. Every few years they tried to dig up some dirt on him. Investigations were open, subpoenas filed, and the cases fell apart in short order. Agents were reassigned, furloughed, fired. Critical paperwork went missing and in one very spectacular instance, had disappeared between the judge’s chambers and the clerk’s office.
But someone was looking to make his bones in D.C. and Diana had been tapped as the sacrificial lamb. She just hoped her career would survive the fallout.
She sighed and picked up the copy of New York magazine her stylist had left on the chair next to her. She was surprised to see that it was last week’s edition. Usually, the periodicals at her salon were anywhere from six months to six years old. The copy of People magazine she read last time had avidly reported on Jennifer Aniston’s divorce from Brad Pitt.
Diana supposed that New York magazine was a step up from People, but she had to confess, she secretly enjoyed reading the celebrity gossip rags – at least when she was getting her hair done. A few hours escaping the daily grind of mortgage fraud, securities fraud, get-rich-quick schemes, and the dupes who fell for them.
She flipped through the glossy pages. It was the holiday edition, filled with pictures of beautiful people cavorting with other beautiful people, in clothing she could never afford. And if they weren’t beautiful, they were rich and powerful. And probably corrupt.
She stifled a snort of laughter at the thought, because one of the photo spreads featured at least two hedge fund traders currently under investigation. She turned the page, wondering who she’d recognize in the next set of photos.
Not a hedge fund trader, not a banker, or an embezzler, but goddamned Neal Caffrey. Even though he wasn’t posing for pictures on the red carpet, but standing in the background, with his face in profile, she’d recognize him anywhere. The caption said that the picture was taken at last Friday’s New York City Ballet fundraiser at the Palace Hotel. Luck was with her today, the photographer was credited – S. Ellis.
Diana was tempted to go back to the office and start working the lead, but she had a head full of hair coloring and a potentially wrathful mother to deal with. She made sure no one was watching and tucked the magazine into her bag. Tomorrow was soon enough to go chasing after Neal Caffrey again.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“I have to say, Peter, I’m still extremely disappointed that you turned down my invitation to go away for Christmas. Grand Cayman in December is much nicer that New York.”
Peter had declined the opportunity when Elizabeth presented it, he turned it done again when Vincent offered again last Wednesday, the first time they’d seen each other since the Ballet Gala, since he fucked the man senseless. And when he requested Peter’s company for Christmas again tonight, he declined as politely as he could.
Peter contemplated his drink, wondering if he could just put it down and walk out. For a man who had professed to no attachments, Vincent Adler was becoming exceedingly clingy. Of course, in a very controlled, very patrician sort of way.
“I don’t travel with clients.” He put the slightest emphasis on the last word.
Vincent finally got the message, and he wasn’t happy. He didn’t say anything, not right away, and nothing direct, but Peter could feel his disapproval through the evening. Of late, they weren’t going anywhere on Wednesday night. Adler had a gourmet meal prepared and they'd spend the evening talking.
Peter didn’t mind. Vincent wasn’t the most charming of men, but he didn’t need to be. He was highly intelligent, a good conversationalist on a wide range of topics, as interested in what Peter had to as he was in his own opinions. Which, oddly enough, reminded him of Neal.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t interested in talking and Peter was never inclined to fill the air with meaningless chatter. So they ate, the sounds of cutlery and glassware echoing in the room. The meal was lamb, a dish similar to the one he enjoyed with Neal on Saturday night. This version was, objectively speaking, better prepared, but Peter enjoyed the other one more.
“Why do you do this?” Those where the first words Vincent said to him in the past hour.
“Do what?”
Adler leaned back in his chair and tossed his napkin down, frustrated. “This. Work for an escort service. Whore yourself.”
Peter wiped his lips and took a sip of wine. “I do it because I like it. Because I was bored with my other life. It gives me a thrill.”
“That’s all I am to you, just a thrill?”
“You’re a client, Vincent.” Peter said with patience. “You’ve procured a service. Something you made very clear to me the first time we met.”
“Ah, yes. Well.” Adler sounded upset and disconcerted.
Peter softened his tone. “And you’re interesting, creative and in many ways, a challenge to me.”
That seemed to smooth Vincent’s ruffled feathers. He smiled at Peter. “A challenge? Hmmm. I could say the same thing about you. You are definitely a challenge to me. I feel like I could be with you for a decade and still not know what makes you tick. You are the proverbial deep waters.”
Peter smiled and shook his head. “I told you, I’m an open book.”
The silence that followed was more comfortable. A server brought in dessert, one of the overly rich pastries that Adler preferred.
“You know, Peter…” Vincent reached across the table and took his hand.
“Yes?” Alarm bells were sounding in his gut. Peter had a dreadful feeling where this conversation was heading.
“I may have been wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“When I said I wasn’t interested in forming a permanent attachment. Would you consider an exclusive arrangement? You’d come work for me at Adler Investments – I have an opening for the VP of Acquisitions. You’d have real work – challenging work – and we’d …” He actually squeezed Peter’s hand.
Peter blinked, appalled at the very idea. “Vincent -”
“Don’t say anything just yet – think about it. I don’t think you’d regret it.”
“I really don’t have to think about it.” Seeing the hope, the triumph, in Adler’s eyes, Peter realized there was no way to gently turn the offer down. “I like our arrangement as it stands. It suits me. I don’t want anything permanent.”
The earlier ugliness that had flashed across Vincent’s face when Peter had said that he was just a client returned and was magnified. “But I do.”
Peter sighed. “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”
“Not an impasse. We’re done. You can leave. Now.”
That suited him even more. Peter stood up and gave Adler a slight bow. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Vincent. I’ll tell Elizabeth that you’ll no longer be requiring my services on Wednesday nights.”
“Do that.”
Peter left the apartment, relieved that he was done with this particular client. Elizabeth had argued ferociously against him taking steps to sever the relationship and he agreed to hold off, at least until after the New Year. She couldn’t give him a hard time if Adler was the one to make the break.
Neal wasn’t working tonight; he had said something about getting together with an old friend, but that he’d be home before ten and to text him when he got done. They could meet for coffee at their usual spot.
He checked the time, it was nine-thirty and maybe Neal was available. He sent him a text.
Neal replied quickly.
The thought of seeing Neal, hours before he expected to, made him happy – happier than he should have been by such a trivial thing, but he didn’t care. He wondered if he should call Elizabeth now or wait until the morning. Might as well wait, no one liked to get bad news at the end of the day.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Diana’s probie knocked on her door. “The photographer’s here, boss. I’ve got her set up in the conference room. Seems a bit prickly, not happy to be here.”
“I’m not surprised. No one likes being asked to come down to an FBI office, especially a few days before Christmas.” It had taken some effort to track down the photographer who took the pictures that Diana had found. The magazine was reluctant to share the information without a warrant, and she ended up getting the name via Google. S. Ellis was Sara Ellis, freelance photographer and occasional photojournalist.
“Get her some coffee; let her know we appreciate her cooperation. I’ll be there in two minutes.” Diana gathered her notes, the purloined copy of the magazine and her thoughts. She had no warrant, no way to compel Ms. Ellis’ assistance. Now was the time to pour on the charm.
Sara Ellis was a tall redhead with excellent posture. She also looked too slight to be carrying around heavy camera gear and throwing herself in front of celebrities and into war zones. She was staring out the window but turned around when Diana entered the room.
“I am a member of the fourth estate and I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like a suspect or a criminal.”
“Ms. Ellis, no one dragged you down here. You were asked and you came of your own free will. This is not an interrogation.” Charm wasn’t going to work with this woman.
She turned back to the window, staring out at the winter skyline. “Whatever.”
“The Bureau does appreciate your cooperation.”
“Your assistant already said that. And for the record, I don’t have to reveal my sources. If you want to find out about election fraud in Albany, do your own legwork.”
Diana took a deep breath. “We didn’t ask you to come down her about your last exposé.”
“Then why am I here?”
“These pictures.” Diana slid the magazine down the table. “You were identified as the photographer.”
“Yeah, so? Is taking pictures of rich people a crime? I have to pay my bills somehow.”
“No, not as far as I know.”
“And again, why am I here?”
Losing patience, Diana cut to the chase. “Who is this guy?” She pointed to the picture with Caffrey in it.
“How the hell would I know? He’s background.”
“Is he in any other pictures you might have taken that night?”
“Why? Is he a criminal? Because I have to tell you, I think that all these guys are criminals.”
“Let’s just say, he’s a person of interest.”
Ellis seemed to appreciate that. “Good thing I like technology.” She pulled an iPad out of her purse and started tapping away. “Ah – here we go. Here’s the album from that event.”
She handed the tablet to Diana and she flicked through the images. There were some tantalizing shots where she was positive Caffrey was in the background, but none of his face. It was as if he was hiding from the camera lens. That didn’t surprise Diana at all. There were several hundred pictures and Diana was ready to give up when she came to a set of table shots. Could she really be that lucky?
She was. There was a picture of Neal Caffrey, again with this face casually turned away from the lens, but sitting next to a man who was smiling like he won the lotto. They guy also had his hand on Neal’s in a very possessive manner.
“You know this guy?” She handed the tablet back to Sara.
“Yeah.” She grimaced. “That’s Daniel Picah. He shows up for all these things. And come to think of it, I’ve seen him with this man a couple of times over the last few months. Sharp dresser, hates the camera.”
“But you don’t know his name?”
“I get the feeling he’s not really part of the charitable set, if you know what I mean.”
“A hanger-on?”
“Maybe. Could be a pro.”
“Pro?” Diana was confused now.
“Professional escort, a walker. Trust me, Daniel Picah isn’t the type to attract someone as slick and good looking as this guy.”
“What do you know about this Picah guy?”
“He’s got money, likes to spend it. Buys a lot of art, drops a lot of cash for good causes. Has the personality of a squirrel in heat. Loves to talk and can’t get him to shut up.”
That set off a lot of warning bells. Neal Caffrey hooking up with a wealthy art collector, could be nothing, could be trouble. Definitely worth looking into. “Can I get a copy of this?”
Sara tapped and flicked and asked for her email address. “Damn – sent you ten other photos with it. Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem. I appreciate you taking the time to come down here. If you think of anything, give me a call.” She handed her a card.
Sara Ellis took the card and took off. Diana went back to her office, plugged in the name “Daniel Pika” and got no responses. She kicked herself for not getting better information from the damn photographer and ran through several spelling variants, finally getting a hit on “Daniel Picah.” She opened the email with the photos, clicked on the thumbnail image of the one with Caffrey and opened it, comparing it to the DMV file photo. Bingo – same guy. “Just what are you doing, Neal Caffrey. What’s your game this time?”
A knock on her door interrupted her train of thought. It was Clinton. As usual, he didn’t wait for permission to enter, flopping down in one of the guest chairs.
“What’s going on?”
“Merry Christmas. The warrants for Adler’s phone records were denied.”
“Ah, damn.” She had roped Clinton into the case; his prior experience with the SEC was going to be invaluable.
“Well, you knew it was a long shot.”
“And sometimes long shots deliver.”
“True.”
“Have mixed feeling about this one. We all know Adler’s dirty, but every agent that’s gone up against him has failed.”
“And lost their jobs. The guy’s got some kind of juice – in the FBI, in the Justice Department, in the courts.” Clinton shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. How do you get a guy who’s that protected?”
Clinton wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know. “The trick is to find a way at him that he’ll never suspect. It’s a pity his organization’s so tight, can’t even sneak a mole in there. He’s got fifteen people working for him at all times, that’s it.”
“Add to that, Adler has no personal weaknesses. Not married, came out about a decade ago, but doesn’t date anyone seriously.”
“Yeah.”
“At least I’m not the one that’s got to tell the brass that the investigation’s stalled.”
“Thanks, you’re some friend.”
Clinton made no move to leave. “So, who was the redhead?”
“Huh?”
“The tall, skinny redhead oozing attitude that just slinked out of here. You were talking with her in the conference room. Doesn’t seem your type.”
That last comment annoyed her. “Agent Clinton Jones – why is it that you have to pair me up with every woman I talk with?”
To her surprise, he flushed. “Just, well, you’ve been alone since Christie left. I worry about you.”
“Thanks. But I’m happy and you don’t need to worry.”
She wasn’t sure he believed her. “So, what was she here for?”
“A welcome change of subject – I’ve got a lead on Neal Caffrey.”
“Caffrey, why?”
“Remember that slash-and-grab from October?”
“Yeah. I seem to recall that you didn’t think it was his M.O.”
“I still don’t, but there’s been a string of similar thefts and it seems to me that even if Caffrey’s not involved, he might know the players.”
“Looking to make him a CI?”
“It’s a thought. Anyway…” She told him how she happened on his picture and showed him the one that Sara Ellis just sent her.
Clinton was amused. “So he’s dating some wealthy art collector now? How very Neal Caffrey.”
“Feel like getting out of the office for a bit? We can go sweat this Daniel Picah. See just what Caffrey’s up to.”
“Why not, could use a little fresh air.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Elizabeth was more than pissed. “Do you know just how much you’ve cost me?” She asked – no, demanded – that Peter meet with her at her office in lower Manhattan.
“He’s not your only client, El.” Peter was a little too nonchalant for her mood.
“You don’t get it, do you? Vincent Adler has more influence in his little finger than most politicians do in their entire body. “He decides to say something, I’m dead. My business is dead. Why the hell couldn’t you go to the Islands with him – a few days of fun and sun – that’s it. Not really a hardship, Peter.”
“I don’t travel with clients, you know that.”
She did. Peter had made that clear from the beginning. He wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship; he wasn’t interested in being “kept.” He had no “Pretty Woman” dreams, unlike many others in her employ. She just wished he’d realize how much damage a pissed-off Adler could do to her.
“I’m sorry, El. You’ll let me know if he makes trouble for you.”
“And what would you do? You’re not in his league, Peter.”
“That may be, but I’m not without some influence over him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could probably get him to back off.”
“How?”
“He wanted to make things exclusive.”
All thoughts of Peter’s supposed leverage against Adler left her mind. She screeched, “What?”
Peter winced. “Yeah – he offered me a ‘position’ in his company.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Not in the least. I turned him down and that’s why he ended things. It wasn’t because I wouldn’t go to the Caribbean with him.”
That put a different spin on things. “Okay, okay.”
“Look, if he calls and wants to do Wednesdays again, I’m open to that. Or even an occasional job on the weekends, but nothing exclusive, nothing out of town.”
“Hmmm, all right.” El flipped through the list of requests for the coming week. “You’re free this Friday, Garrett Fowler’s back in town and he’s got tickets to the Ranger’s game. He asked for you.”
“That’s fine, you can book me. Tell him I’ll meet him at Brother Jimmy’s as usual. Wouldn’t mind some barbeque.”
“Good. And what about next week? If you’re not going to be with Adler, you’re not going to be working. I’ve got nothing for you until New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to a little down time.”
Elizabeth was resigned to losing Adler as a client; in truth it was better than the alternative. Had Peter taken that offer, he would have been off her books. While she charged Adler a fortune for Peter’s time, she charged other men a lot of money for Peter’s time, too. And with Neal Caffrey in the mix, her business was doing better than ever.
Which reminded her, “Peter – how’s Neal working out?”
“Neal’s doing fine. You talk to him; you know how much he’s in demand.”
El chuckled. “Yeah, I do. I’d book him seven nights a week if he’d let me. But seriously, how’s it working out?”
“Good, he’s quiet, neat. Housebroken.”
“He’s not a puppy, Peter.”
“No, he’s better than a puppy. He doesn’t make messes on the carpet.”
“I should hope not. But you like him?”
“Yes, El. I do.” There was something in Peter’s answer that sent off alarm bells. Something in his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his posture.
She pressed him. “You’re telling me the truth – you’re not getting ready to kick him out? I don’t want to have to find him another place.” Or convince Mozzie to let him stay in one of the safe houses indefinitely.
“Since when did you become such a mother hen?”
“You didn’t answer my question. He makes a lot of money for me and I like him – he’s got that bad boy appeal. “
“Thought you liked bad girls.”
“I do, and you’re dodging me.”
Peter held up a hand, giving into her pressure. “Yes, Elizabeth. I like Neal very much. I’ve got no plans on kicking him out. He enjoys the work and even though he’s a convicted felon, he’s remarkably trustworthy.”
“Ah, so he told you.”
“He did.”
“You never asked me about his background.”
“I trusted – I trust – you not to hire an axe murder or a sociopath.”
“And I figured he’d tell you sooner or later.”
“We done here?” Peter finished his coffee and stood up, all long legs and exasperation.
“Yeah, we are. I’ll be in touch, and if Adler calls…”
“Wednesdays only, for now. Keep it low key, keep it light.”
“You got it, sweetie. And don’t forget about Fowler on Friday.”
Peter gave her a look of minor annoyance before leaving.
El knew that the Adler problem wasn’t going to go away. If he called, there was a chance he’d want someone else. But who? Times like this, she felt a little like Jim Phelps from the old Mission: Impossible series, flipping through an album of available players for her own little undercover operation, except that the album was an iPad and hopefully she wouldn’t have to disavow any knowledge of her guy’s actions.
Avery Phillips? Nah, too much of a psychopath. She flicked to the next image.
Ryan Wilkes? Too intense, too inclined to want more than the client was willing to give.
Edward Reilly? Nope, a bit too rough around the edges to appeal to Vincent Adler.
Edward Walker? That was an interesting possibility. He was older, like Peter. Had a way about him. It could be a good match. She hoped she’d get the chance to pair them up.
The last photo in the digital album was Neal Caffrey. She discarded the possibility almost as soon as the idea came to her, but then reconsidered. Adler was a connoisseur and Neal was an artist with very refined tastes. It could be a match. If Vincent did call, she’d ask him if he was interested in someone younger – if just for a change of pace.
END PART FOUR - GO TO PART FIVE - ON LJ | ON DW
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Vincent Adler, Daniel Picah, mention of other canon characters in minor non-canon settings.
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Neal/Daniel, Peter/Adler, Adler/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prostitution, rape, Domination/submission, dubious consent, fuck-or-die scenario, use of gender-specific insults
Word Count: ~56,000
Beta Credit:
jrosemary, theatregirl7299 and hoosierbitch Summary: In some alternate universe, Peter Burke is a wealthy and bored financial advisor and discovers that one of his clients, Elizabeth Mitchell, is using her event planning business to launder profits from an escort service catering to the wealthy gay elite in New York. Instead of turning her in, he asks her to hire him. Neal Caffrey has been recently released from a four-year sentence for bond forgery and learns that his girlfriend, Kate has married his old boyfriend, Matthew Keller and they’ve taken off for parts unknown. Determined not to return to prison, Neal turns to his friend, Mozzie, for help. Moz knows a guy – or in this case – a gal who’s willing to hire Neal. As an escort.
PART THREE - ON LJ | ON DW
The late afternoon light gilded Neal’s hair, his brows, even his eyelashes. It kissed the arch of his nose and the curve of his jaw. Peter wondered if he should be jealous of the sun as it began to sink behind the mountains.
Neal looked up from his sketchpad, smiled at him and all thoughts of jealousy evaporated. There was wonder in that look; joy, too. Peter smiled back and the light in Neal’s eyes glowed brighter.
An odd feeling settled around his heart, something familiar but so long forgotten that he almost didn’t recognize it.
Happiness.
Sitting by the fire and watching Neal work, Peter thought life couldn’t be more perfect. No cares, no worries, just him and his lover.
A faint clatter interrupted his pleasant thoughts. Neal had tossed his pencil on the table. “Ah, I think I’m done. Losing the light.”
“Can I see?”
“It’s just something preliminary, nothing important.”
“I’d like to see – you’ve never shown me your work.”
Neal got a wary look on his face and licked his lips. “I’m not really accustomed to sharing at this stage.”
“Okay – I can understand.” Peter did and tried to hide his disappointment.
But Neal must have seen something, because he abruptly thrust the sketchpad at him. “Like I said, it’s just a sketch.”
Peter looked at the drawing and was awed. The sketch of the view from the terrace was both simple and detailed; the ice building along the shoreline and fluid, the bare trees dipping into the dark waters of Lake George were mere suggestions of their summer greatness, except for a solitary leaf still clinging to a branch. He was abruptly reminded of something he read, that drawing was the most honest and intimate of mediums.
“Neal – this is incredible.”
“You think so?” Neal sounded doubtful.
“Yeah – I absolutely think so. Would you – could I …” Now Peter was a little embarrassed. “I’d like to have this, have it framed.”
“Really? It’s just a drawing. I was going to do a watercolor study of the scene when I got back to my studio.”
“You can, but I want this. Okay?”
Neal took the pad out of his hand, picked up his pencil and signed the drawing with a flourish. “It’s yours.” He leaned over, “And so is this.” Neal kissed him.
That kiss could have escalated into something more, but his stomach rumbled. “Sorry, other appetites are calling.”
Neal kissed him again and Peter could taste his smile. “Okay, but our reservations aren’t for another few hours.”
“What can I say, all the exercise today has made me hungry.”
“What exercise?” Neal actually smirked at him. The morning’s ride hadn’t gone quite as planned, mostly because Neal distracted him.
“How long has it been since you’ve been on horseback?” Neal had called out from the bedroom.
“A few months. I like to come up here in the late fall, after the tourists have gone.”
Walking back into the suite’s main room, Neal stopped and stared at him. “That’s what you’re wearing?” He sounded disappointed.
Peter couldn’t understand Neal’s disappointment. He had on jeans, boot and a heavy sweater. “Why? What’s the matter?”
Neal licked his lips, just the tiniest peep of his tongue. “You said you did show jumping. I thought you’d be …”
“I’d be what, Neal?”
“Wearing boots.”
“I am.” Puzzled, Peter looked at his feet; the Timberlands he had on weren’t the best for riding, but was cold outside and there was snow on the trails.
“Not those kind of boots.”
Peter met Neal’s gaze and to his amazement, his cheeks were bright red. Oh.
“You like boots?” Peter never thought of himself as particularly kinky, but Neal was sparking all sorts of ideas.
“Boots, gloves, you in those really tight pants.” If anything, Neal turned even redder.
Peter took a deep breath. “A riding crop is part of the uniform, too.”
Neal moaned. “Don’t do this to me.”
They didn’t make it to the stables that morning.
His stomach rumbled again and Peter clapped a hand over his belly. “Sorry.”
Neal chuckled. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. We don’t have to stick to a schedule, you know. It’s not like …” He paused, about to say something, then seemed to catch himself. “Like elementary school. If you want to go to dinner early, that leaves more time for other things this evening.”
“Other things?”
“Gin rummy, chess. Sex.” Neal picked up the telephone and without further consultation, changed their dinner reservations from the very continental 8 PM seating to one more favored by the blue-haired set.
Peter wasn’t sure he was happy about the change in plans, having dinner at six meant the conversation he needed to have with Neal was going to happen two hours sooner. He tried to talk himself out of it, of letting sleeping dogs lie, but he couldn’t. Something bad happened on Friday.
They had finished dinner and the second cup of espresso was probably unnecessary, more of a delaying tactic than anything. Neal smiled at him from the short distance across the table and Peter debated, yet again, about letting things go. He stared into the dregs in his cup, hoping to find some answers.
“Peter, there’s something I need to tell you.”
He looked up, a bit startled. “Neal?”
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he repeated. “And I need you to listen to everything before you react.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Neal grimaced and Peter couldn’t help but notice how the light had dimmed from his eyes. “The night we met –”
Once again, Peter wished he had pressed Elizabeth for more on Neal’s history. “Yeah?” He had no clue where this was going.
“Was the first-week anniversary of my release from prison.”
“Prison?” Peter repeated, feeling slow and stupid.
“Yes, prison. I had just gotten out of Sing-Sing.”
“That’s maximum security. That’s where they put murders,” Peter blurted out. Who the hell had he fallen for? “Does Elizabeth know?”
Neal nodded. “Yes, she does. And I’m not a murder. I really shouldn’t even have been sent there, but the US Attorney was able to convince the judge that I was a flight risk and the Federal Bureau of Prisons struck a deal with New York State. I did my four years there, instead of the minimum security facility at Otisville.”
“What did you do?”
“I was convicted on a charge of bond forgery.”
In the back of his head, behind the panicked clamoring, he realized that Neal hadn’t admitted to the crime. And who the hell forges bonds?
“You have to know, I hate guns, I hate violence. I never took anything from anyone who couldn’t afford to lose it. And like I told Elizabeth, I won’t do anything that is going to send me back there.” His words were impassioned, but the look on Neal’s face spoke volumes more. He was terrified.
Peter chose his words carefully. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I don’t want to keep pretending my past never happened. Not with you, not when there’s an ‘us’.” Neal reached out, slowly, giving Peter every chance to move away. He didn’t. Neal’s hand on top of his wrist was hot, sweaty, shaking. “I never want you to have a reason to distrust me.”
The perverse part of him wanted to blurt out, You’re a convicted felon, you stole from people. How could I ever trust you? But the man who woke up this morning with his face buried in Neal’s curls, his arms wrapped around him, realized that everyone deserved at least a second chance. “Okay.” He put a hand over Neal’s, stilling the tremors. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Peter didn’t know if he could ask Neal about what happened Friday night. Not now, not yet. Maybe never.
“So, things are with you are good?”
He had met Moz at the same coffee shop where he and Peter had their post-tryst rendezvous. Moz, in an odd fit of holiday spirit, was wearing a blue, white and silver wool hat with earflaps decorated with tiny menorahs.
Neal smiled. “Couldn’t be better.” It was a week since he and Peter had gotten back from Lake George, and the first time he’d seen Mozzie since October.
“I thought you’d be a natural. You’ve got the looks, the charm. Maybe if you’re lucky, some rich guy will fall head over heels and ask you to marry him.”
“Moz – that’s the plot from Pretty Woman.”
“Don’t be so gender-specific. No reason why it couldn’t work for you. You’re better looking than Julia Roberts, a little less horse-faced.”
Neal choked on his coffee. “I don’t need to have a client fall in love with me.”
“Hmmm, you’re happy just as you are?”
“Yeah.” Neal kept it simple. For some reason, he figured that Moz wouldn’t be too thrilled to learn that he had fallen in love, just not with a sugar daddy.
“Your living situation all sorted out?” Moz had left town on a “project” just as he had started working for Elizabeth. He was pretty clear that he expected Neal to be gone from Donnerstag (a safe house that used to be a cellar for a German beer hall) before he got back. Of course, he never told Neal that he wasn’t going to be back until Christmas.
“Yeah – I’m living with one of El’s other…” What should he call Peter?
“Studs?”
Neal’s face grew hot. “Employees. He’d got a place up in Yorkville. A classic six.”
“Very nice. Escort work pays well, it seems.”
“It’s good enough. I’m clearing enough to rent some studio space in NoHo.”
“You’re serious about the art, really?”
“Yeah, I am. I have the time and the desire, especially since I don’t have to scrounge for a living.” And I don’t have to impress Kate.
“Hmm, well – I guess I figured this day would come.” Moz gave him that look, the one that made Neal always think of a myopic turtle.
“What day?”
“That you’d find your wings and fly out of the nest.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. But I couldn’t have done it without you. Hooking me up with Elizabeth solved a lot of my problems.”
Moz inclined his head regally. “I will accept all credit whenever and however it’s given.” He took a sip of his tea. “So, tell me about the guy who’s giving you house space on the Upper East Side.”
“Peter?” Neal really didn’t want to talk about him to Mozzie. It was all too new, too precious.
“Good name – solid.”
“That’s a nice way to describe him. Solid, grounded.”
“And yet he’s an escort.”
Neal shrugged. He wanted to say that Peter was so much more than that, but that would lead to other questions, ones Neal didn’t want to answer.
Moz seemed to catch on, and let that subject drop. Only to find another sore one. “Tell me, have you run into any old friends?”
Neal swallowed. “Yeah. The worst one possible.”
“Don’t tell me, Adler?”
“Yeah, Adler.”
“Did he create a scene?”
“No – that’s not how Vincent works.”
“No, he’s more like a sapper, digging and digging until he’s compromised your very foundation.” Mozzie peered at him, owlishly. “So, what happened?”
Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him, but his friend had a way of worming the details out of him. “He made it clear that he was interested in picking up where he had dropped things ten years ago.”
“In other words, he’d like to go back to crushing your spirit, grinding you into dust smaller than subatomic particles.”
Neal nodded. “He seemed rather eager to get started.”
“I hope you spat in his face.
Neal said nothing, finding the stained rim of his coffee cup fascinating.
“Neal – you let him?”
“Moz –”
“If you tell me I wouldn’t understand, I’m going to walk out.”
“You really wouldn’t understand. He’s magnetic, and it’s like I’m caught in his orbit.”
“You’re mixing up astronomy with physics, mon frère. Wait, make that physics with astronomy.”
“You know what I mean, Moz.”
“So stay out of his way.”
Neal knew that was easier said than done, unless he stopped working for Elizabeth. “I’ll do my best.” Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “How’s Sally?”
“She’s good. Sends her regards.” Moz check the time on his phone. “And speaking of Sally, I need to sally forth.” Moz chuckled at his own witticism. “Since you’re earning the big bucks now, you can pay for this.”
“Gee, thanks, Moz. You’re a prince.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Moz, as oblivious to Neal’s sarcasm as ever, shouldered his messenger bag and toddled off, leaving Neal with the check.
Neal held up his cup and the waitress came over with the pot to refill it. As much as he liked Moz, there were times when his company was a little too much. And yet, he could have used a friendly ear, someone who wasn’t invested, someone impartial. Well, that actually did rule Moz out.
He looked out at the city street, festive in the usual pre-Christmas way and couldn’t keep his thoughts from going back to Peter and their weekend upstate. Despite his initial shock over Neal’s confession, he came to terms with it very quickly. He didn’t dance around the subject and he didn’t pry. But he did have questions, none of which were unexpected.
Peter had asked, “What was the worst thing about prison?”
He gave him the same answer he gave Elizabeth the first time they met, “The boredom.” Of course Peter, who masked a tender heart, wanted to know if Neal was okay, though he never outright asked him if he’d been raped. Neal had been candid and honest.
“I was fine, took a bad beating the first week, but I had a solitary cell and I paid the guards well to watch my back after that.”
Peter nodded gravely and let it go. One thing did surprise him. Peter was curious about his criminal past, his alleged misdeeds. Neal had a hard time not bragging, but telling him about his capers could come back to haunt him. So he kept quiet, playing down his years in Europe, although he did share one or two stories about Diana Berrigan, the FBI agent who dogged his trail for so many years.
That night, in bed, he told Peter about the first time he met the agent who finally caught him.
“I can’t believe you walked right up to her, the money from a forged bond in your hand, and gave her a lollipop.”
“A lime-green sucker.”
“You were insane.”
“No, I was young, foolish and stupidly proud that the FBI was on my tail.”
He also had to tell Peter about the time in Venice. “The Carabinari was on the left, Agent Berrigan was on the right. A pincer movement – she must have studied the classics.”
“I don’t think they teach Hannibal’s tactics at the FBI Academy.”
Neal had chuckled, of course Peter would know that he was thinking of the Battle of Cannae.
“So, how did you escape?”
“I jumped. The Rialto isn’t all that high and there was a very convenient vaporetto passing underneath. I didn’t even get wet. You should have seen her face, though.”
“You liked her.”
“Yeah. She was smart; she kept me on my toes. I was smarter, though.”
“And yet, she caught you.”
Neal had grimaced. This was heading into territory he didn’t want to share. “She did only because I made a mistake. It cost me.”
Peter kissed him. “Well, even criminal geniuses make mistakes.”
Mistakes. Yeah, he’d made plenty of them. Kate wasn’t his biggest mistake. Nor was Matthew Keller. Both were rounding errors when compared to the mistake he made with Vincent Adler. Actually, the mistake wasn’t even with Adler, it was coming into the man’s orbit.
Moz had thought they could take a bite out of the Adler pie; he had spotted a weakness in his financial system and wanted to use Neal as his front man. Neal worked his way into Adler’s organization, caught the man’s eye and within a week, was completely and utterly seduced.
It wasn’t sex, not at first. It was his personality. Neal had been too inexperienced to recognize just what Adler was, just what he was. He flirted with Kate, he seduced her away from her boring fiancé, but at the same time, Vincent was seducing him, training him. Remaking him.
At one point, Moz said he was becoming a mini-Adler and Neal hadn’t thought that was a bad thing. Of course, he hadn’t recognized the damage as it was happening. He hadn’t seen how he was losing himself. Even the first time Adler fucked him, when he crawled to the man like a slave, like a dog, it all seemed so natural, so perfectly in keeping with whom he was, who Vincent was. When Adler was done fucking him, he wasn’t so crude as to toss money at him – not like what happened at the gala – the payment for services was more subtle. A new title, a raise, a bonus on top of that, bespoke suits from his own personal tailor.
The transformation wasn’t quick, but it had been complete.
And now Peter seemed to be caught in Adler’s web. They had left Lake George on Monday morning, and Peter let him drive back, after extracting his promise to stay within the posted speed limit. They were just south of Albany when Peter’s cell rang; it was Elizabeth. The audible half of the conversation chilled him to the bone.
“Elizabeth, you know my feelings about out of town assignments.”
“Tell him no.”
“I don’t care that he’s willing to pay double my rate, I’m not going to Grand Cayman with him for Christmas on his private jet. In fact, I’m not working that whole week.”
Neal raised his eyebrows at that. Maybe Peter’s years with Elizabeth earned him the right to turn down assignments.
“I am not interested. Full stop.”
Neal sneaked a look at Peter; his tone of voice was becoming impatient, aggravated.
“Yes, I know just who he is, and I don’t really care. None of that impresses me.”
“You can tell him that if he continues to push, I’m going to call it quits for everything.”
Even over the roar of the Corvette’s engine, Neal could hear Elizabeth screech her dismay.
“Calm down, El. Just calm down. I’m not quitting you, I’m just be calling a halt to Wednesdays with Adler. Maybe it’s time. He’s getting too demanding.”
It was a good thing that the New York State Thruway was empty this time of day, because Neal hit the brakes hard at Adler’s name and had to fight to keep control of the car. Peter ended the call and told him to pull over and change places.
He tried not to brood about Peter and Adler for the rest of the trip home, but the problem was never far from his mind. He hadn’t forgotten that Peter had been Adler’s date at the Ballet Gala on Friday, but he’d been too consumed with his own encounter with that bastard to focus on it. Now, hearing that Peter had a regular appointment with Vincent, and Vincent was pressing him for more time made him ill.
He couldn’t talk to Mozzie about this. That meant telling him about his feelings for Peter, their too-new relationship. He certainly couldn’t talk to Elizabeth, who was clearly concerned with her revenue stream, although he now worried that Adler could bring all sorts of pressure to bear against her if she couldn’t convince Peter to comply.
“Another refill?”
Neal looked up. The waitress was standing over him with a mostly empty pot and an annoyed expression on her face. He’d been sitting at the booth for over an hour with just the coffee; he didn’t blame her.
“No, thanks.” He gave the woman his brightest, most winning smile. It worked. Her lips twitched and she smiled back. He left her an outsized tip, paid for his coffee and Mozzie’s tea and headed home.
He still didn’t know what he was going to do about Peter. And Adler.
“Yes, mom. Yes. Yes, mom. I’ll be there, I promise. No, no last minute emergencies. I’ve already left the office and I’m getting my hair done. Yes – a color and a cut. Something special? Like what? An updo? Mom…”
Diana listened to her mother go on and on, barely letting her get a word in. Her parents were in town this weekend, a combination holiday visit and (at least for her mother) a marathon shopping session. She’d been gently coerced into attending a Christmas party at the Danish Consulate. Her father had once been posted to Denmark and was good friends with the current ambassador.
That said ambassador’s daughter was a recently divorced lesbian had nothing to do with anything, her mother insisted. Diana hadn’t believed a word of that, but gave in anyway; figuring some emergency would come up and she’d be able to cancel at the last moment. Except that the emergency never materialized, and here she was, getting the full treatment – hair, nails, pedicure. It wasn’t like she didn’t take care of herself, but she had better things to do with her time.
There was an unsolved string of thefts from art galleries all over Manhattan – all slash and grabs like the one at the Lampson. Just last Sunday, after a Motherwell disappeared from the Colley Gallery, the Feds started fighting with the locals over jurisdiction, and it seemed that this case was going to land on her list, whether she wanted it or not. But right now, it still belonged to the NYPD. It was up to her bosses to sort it out.
And truthfully, she had other – more critical – cases on her sheet. The SEC was looking into Vincent Adler, again. Every few years they tried to dig up some dirt on him. Investigations were open, subpoenas filed, and the cases fell apart in short order. Agents were reassigned, furloughed, fired. Critical paperwork went missing and in one very spectacular instance, had disappeared between the judge’s chambers and the clerk’s office.
But someone was looking to make his bones in D.C. and Diana had been tapped as the sacrificial lamb. She just hoped her career would survive the fallout.
She sighed and picked up the copy of New York magazine her stylist had left on the chair next to her. She was surprised to see that it was last week’s edition. Usually, the periodicals at her salon were anywhere from six months to six years old. The copy of People magazine she read last time had avidly reported on Jennifer Aniston’s divorce from Brad Pitt.
Diana supposed that New York magazine was a step up from People, but she had to confess, she secretly enjoyed reading the celebrity gossip rags – at least when she was getting her hair done. A few hours escaping the daily grind of mortgage fraud, securities fraud, get-rich-quick schemes, and the dupes who fell for them.
She flipped through the glossy pages. It was the holiday edition, filled with pictures of beautiful people cavorting with other beautiful people, in clothing she could never afford. And if they weren’t beautiful, they were rich and powerful. And probably corrupt.
She stifled a snort of laughter at the thought, because one of the photo spreads featured at least two hedge fund traders currently under investigation. She turned the page, wondering who she’d recognize in the next set of photos.
Not a hedge fund trader, not a banker, or an embezzler, but goddamned Neal Caffrey. Even though he wasn’t posing for pictures on the red carpet, but standing in the background, with his face in profile, she’d recognize him anywhere. The caption said that the picture was taken at last Friday’s New York City Ballet fundraiser at the Palace Hotel. Luck was with her today, the photographer was credited – S. Ellis.
Diana was tempted to go back to the office and start working the lead, but she had a head full of hair coloring and a potentially wrathful mother to deal with. She made sure no one was watching and tucked the magazine into her bag. Tomorrow was soon enough to go chasing after Neal Caffrey again.
“I have to say, Peter, I’m still extremely disappointed that you turned down my invitation to go away for Christmas. Grand Cayman in December is much nicer that New York.”
Peter had declined the opportunity when Elizabeth presented it, he turned it done again when Vincent offered again last Wednesday, the first time they’d seen each other since the Ballet Gala, since he fucked the man senseless. And when he requested Peter’s company for Christmas again tonight, he declined as politely as he could.
Peter contemplated his drink, wondering if he could just put it down and walk out. For a man who had professed to no attachments, Vincent Adler was becoming exceedingly clingy. Of course, in a very controlled, very patrician sort of way.
“I don’t travel with clients.” He put the slightest emphasis on the last word.
Vincent finally got the message, and he wasn’t happy. He didn’t say anything, not right away, and nothing direct, but Peter could feel his disapproval through the evening. Of late, they weren’t going anywhere on Wednesday night. Adler had a gourmet meal prepared and they'd spend the evening talking.
Peter didn’t mind. Vincent wasn’t the most charming of men, but he didn’t need to be. He was highly intelligent, a good conversationalist on a wide range of topics, as interested in what Peter had to as he was in his own opinions. Which, oddly enough, reminded him of Neal.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t interested in talking and Peter was never inclined to fill the air with meaningless chatter. So they ate, the sounds of cutlery and glassware echoing in the room. The meal was lamb, a dish similar to the one he enjoyed with Neal on Saturday night. This version was, objectively speaking, better prepared, but Peter enjoyed the other one more.
“Why do you do this?” Those where the first words Vincent said to him in the past hour.
“Do what?”
Adler leaned back in his chair and tossed his napkin down, frustrated. “This. Work for an escort service. Whore yourself.”
Peter wiped his lips and took a sip of wine. “I do it because I like it. Because I was bored with my other life. It gives me a thrill.”
“That’s all I am to you, just a thrill?”
“You’re a client, Vincent.” Peter said with patience. “You’ve procured a service. Something you made very clear to me the first time we met.”
“Ah, yes. Well.” Adler sounded upset and disconcerted.
Peter softened his tone. “And you’re interesting, creative and in many ways, a challenge to me.”
That seemed to smooth Vincent’s ruffled feathers. He smiled at Peter. “A challenge? Hmmm. I could say the same thing about you. You are definitely a challenge to me. I feel like I could be with you for a decade and still not know what makes you tick. You are the proverbial deep waters.”
Peter smiled and shook his head. “I told you, I’m an open book.”
The silence that followed was more comfortable. A server brought in dessert, one of the overly rich pastries that Adler preferred.
“You know, Peter…” Vincent reached across the table and took his hand.
“Yes?” Alarm bells were sounding in his gut. Peter had a dreadful feeling where this conversation was heading.
“I may have been wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“When I said I wasn’t interested in forming a permanent attachment. Would you consider an exclusive arrangement? You’d come work for me at Adler Investments – I have an opening for the VP of Acquisitions. You’d have real work – challenging work – and we’d …” He actually squeezed Peter’s hand.
Peter blinked, appalled at the very idea. “Vincent -”
“Don’t say anything just yet – think about it. I don’t think you’d regret it.”
“I really don’t have to think about it.” Seeing the hope, the triumph, in Adler’s eyes, Peter realized there was no way to gently turn the offer down. “I like our arrangement as it stands. It suits me. I don’t want anything permanent.”
The earlier ugliness that had flashed across Vincent’s face when Peter had said that he was just a client returned and was magnified. “But I do.”
Peter sighed. “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”
“Not an impasse. We’re done. You can leave. Now.”
That suited him even more. Peter stood up and gave Adler a slight bow. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Vincent. I’ll tell Elizabeth that you’ll no longer be requiring my services on Wednesday nights.”
“Do that.”
Peter left the apartment, relieved that he was done with this particular client. Elizabeth had argued ferociously against him taking steps to sever the relationship and he agreed to hold off, at least until after the New Year. She couldn’t give him a hard time if Adler was the one to make the break.
Neal wasn’t working tonight; he had said something about getting together with an old friend, but that he’d be home before ten and to text him when he got done. They could meet for coffee at their usual spot.
He checked the time, it was nine-thirty and maybe Neal was available. He sent him a text.
I’m free now, meet me at The Lantern?
Neal replied quickly.
I’m in that neighborhood, be there in ten. C U Soon.
The thought of seeing Neal, hours before he expected to, made him happy – happier than he should have been by such a trivial thing, but he didn’t care. He wondered if he should call Elizabeth now or wait until the morning. Might as well wait, no one liked to get bad news at the end of the day.
Diana’s probie knocked on her door. “The photographer’s here, boss. I’ve got her set up in the conference room. Seems a bit prickly, not happy to be here.”
“I’m not surprised. No one likes being asked to come down to an FBI office, especially a few days before Christmas.” It had taken some effort to track down the photographer who took the pictures that Diana had found. The magazine was reluctant to share the information without a warrant, and she ended up getting the name via Google. S. Ellis was Sara Ellis, freelance photographer and occasional photojournalist.
“Get her some coffee; let her know we appreciate her cooperation. I’ll be there in two minutes.” Diana gathered her notes, the purloined copy of the magazine and her thoughts. She had no warrant, no way to compel Ms. Ellis’ assistance. Now was the time to pour on the charm.
Sara Ellis was a tall redhead with excellent posture. She also looked too slight to be carrying around heavy camera gear and throwing herself in front of celebrities and into war zones. She was staring out the window but turned around when Diana entered the room.
“I am a member of the fourth estate and I don’t appreciate being dragged in here like a suspect or a criminal.”
“Ms. Ellis, no one dragged you down here. You were asked and you came of your own free will. This is not an interrogation.” Charm wasn’t going to work with this woman.
She turned back to the window, staring out at the winter skyline. “Whatever.”
“The Bureau does appreciate your cooperation.”
“Your assistant already said that. And for the record, I don’t have to reveal my sources. If you want to find out about election fraud in Albany, do your own legwork.”
Diana took a deep breath. “We didn’t ask you to come down her about your last exposé.”
“Then why am I here?”
“These pictures.” Diana slid the magazine down the table. “You were identified as the photographer.”
“Yeah, so? Is taking pictures of rich people a crime? I have to pay my bills somehow.”
“No, not as far as I know.”
“And again, why am I here?”
Losing patience, Diana cut to the chase. “Who is this guy?” She pointed to the picture with Caffrey in it.
“How the hell would I know? He’s background.”
“Is he in any other pictures you might have taken that night?”
“Why? Is he a criminal? Because I have to tell you, I think that all these guys are criminals.”
“Let’s just say, he’s a person of interest.”
Ellis seemed to appreciate that. “Good thing I like technology.” She pulled an iPad out of her purse and started tapping away. “Ah – here we go. Here’s the album from that event.”
She handed the tablet to Diana and she flicked through the images. There were some tantalizing shots where she was positive Caffrey was in the background, but none of his face. It was as if he was hiding from the camera lens. That didn’t surprise Diana at all. There were several hundred pictures and Diana was ready to give up when she came to a set of table shots. Could she really be that lucky?
She was. There was a picture of Neal Caffrey, again with this face casually turned away from the lens, but sitting next to a man who was smiling like he won the lotto. They guy also had his hand on Neal’s in a very possessive manner.
“You know this guy?” She handed the tablet back to Sara.
“Yeah.” She grimaced. “That’s Daniel Picah. He shows up for all these things. And come to think of it, I’ve seen him with this man a couple of times over the last few months. Sharp dresser, hates the camera.”
“But you don’t know his name?”
“I get the feeling he’s not really part of the charitable set, if you know what I mean.”
“A hanger-on?”
“Maybe. Could be a pro.”
“Pro?” Diana was confused now.
“Professional escort, a walker. Trust me, Daniel Picah isn’t the type to attract someone as slick and good looking as this guy.”
“What do you know about this Picah guy?”
“He’s got money, likes to spend it. Buys a lot of art, drops a lot of cash for good causes. Has the personality of a squirrel in heat. Loves to talk and can’t get him to shut up.”
That set off a lot of warning bells. Neal Caffrey hooking up with a wealthy art collector, could be nothing, could be trouble. Definitely worth looking into. “Can I get a copy of this?”
Sara tapped and flicked and asked for her email address. “Damn – sent you ten other photos with it. Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem. I appreciate you taking the time to come down here. If you think of anything, give me a call.” She handed her a card.
Sara Ellis took the card and took off. Diana went back to her office, plugged in the name “Daniel Pika” and got no responses. She kicked herself for not getting better information from the damn photographer and ran through several spelling variants, finally getting a hit on “Daniel Picah.” She opened the email with the photos, clicked on the thumbnail image of the one with Caffrey and opened it, comparing it to the DMV file photo. Bingo – same guy. “Just what are you doing, Neal Caffrey. What’s your game this time?”
A knock on her door interrupted her train of thought. It was Clinton. As usual, he didn’t wait for permission to enter, flopping down in one of the guest chairs.
“What’s going on?”
“Merry Christmas. The warrants for Adler’s phone records were denied.”
“Ah, damn.” She had roped Clinton into the case; his prior experience with the SEC was going to be invaluable.
“Well, you knew it was a long shot.”
“And sometimes long shots deliver.”
“True.”
“Have mixed feeling about this one. We all know Adler’s dirty, but every agent that’s gone up against him has failed.”
“And lost their jobs. The guy’s got some kind of juice – in the FBI, in the Justice Department, in the courts.” Clinton shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. How do you get a guy who’s that protected?”
Clinton wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know. “The trick is to find a way at him that he’ll never suspect. It’s a pity his organization’s so tight, can’t even sneak a mole in there. He’s got fifteen people working for him at all times, that’s it.”
“Add to that, Adler has no personal weaknesses. Not married, came out about a decade ago, but doesn’t date anyone seriously.”
“Yeah.”
“At least I’m not the one that’s got to tell the brass that the investigation’s stalled.”
“Thanks, you’re some friend.”
Clinton made no move to leave. “So, who was the redhead?”
“Huh?”
“The tall, skinny redhead oozing attitude that just slinked out of here. You were talking with her in the conference room. Doesn’t seem your type.”
That last comment annoyed her. “Agent Clinton Jones – why is it that you have to pair me up with every woman I talk with?”
To her surprise, he flushed. “Just, well, you’ve been alone since Christie left. I worry about you.”
“Thanks. But I’m happy and you don’t need to worry.”
She wasn’t sure he believed her. “So, what was she here for?”
“A welcome change of subject – I’ve got a lead on Neal Caffrey.”
“Caffrey, why?”
“Remember that slash-and-grab from October?”
“Yeah. I seem to recall that you didn’t think it was his M.O.”
“I still don’t, but there’s been a string of similar thefts and it seems to me that even if Caffrey’s not involved, he might know the players.”
“Looking to make him a CI?”
“It’s a thought. Anyway…” She told him how she happened on his picture and showed him the one that Sara Ellis just sent her.
Clinton was amused. “So he’s dating some wealthy art collector now? How very Neal Caffrey.”
“Feel like getting out of the office for a bit? We can go sweat this Daniel Picah. See just what Caffrey’s up to.”
“Why not, could use a little fresh air.”
“Do you know what you’ve done?” Elizabeth was more than pissed. “Do you know just how much you’ve cost me?” She asked – no, demanded – that Peter meet with her at her office in lower Manhattan.
“He’s not your only client, El.” Peter was a little too nonchalant for her mood.
“You don’t get it, do you? Vincent Adler has more influence in his little finger than most politicians do in their entire body. “He decides to say something, I’m dead. My business is dead. Why the hell couldn’t you go to the Islands with him – a few days of fun and sun – that’s it. Not really a hardship, Peter.”
“I don’t travel with clients, you know that.”
She did. Peter had made that clear from the beginning. He wasn’t interested in a permanent relationship; he wasn’t interested in being “kept.” He had no “Pretty Woman” dreams, unlike many others in her employ. She just wished he’d realize how much damage a pissed-off Adler could do to her.
“I’m sorry, El. You’ll let me know if he makes trouble for you.”
“And what would you do? You’re not in his league, Peter.”
“That may be, but I’m not without some influence over him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I could probably get him to back off.”
“How?”
“He wanted to make things exclusive.”
All thoughts of Peter’s supposed leverage against Adler left her mind. She screeched, “What?”
Peter winced. “Yeah – he offered me a ‘position’ in his company.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Not in the least. I turned him down and that’s why he ended things. It wasn’t because I wouldn’t go to the Caribbean with him.”
That put a different spin on things. “Okay, okay.”
“Look, if he calls and wants to do Wednesdays again, I’m open to that. Or even an occasional job on the weekends, but nothing exclusive, nothing out of town.”
“Hmmm, all right.” El flipped through the list of requests for the coming week. “You’re free this Friday, Garrett Fowler’s back in town and he’s got tickets to the Ranger’s game. He asked for you.”
“That’s fine, you can book me. Tell him I’ll meet him at Brother Jimmy’s as usual. Wouldn’t mind some barbeque.”
“Good. And what about next week? If you’re not going to be with Adler, you’re not going to be working. I’ve got nothing for you until New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s not a problem. I’m looking forward to a little down time.”
Elizabeth was resigned to losing Adler as a client; in truth it was better than the alternative. Had Peter taken that offer, he would have been off her books. While she charged Adler a fortune for Peter’s time, she charged other men a lot of money for Peter’s time, too. And with Neal Caffrey in the mix, her business was doing better than ever.
Which reminded her, “Peter – how’s Neal working out?”
“Neal’s doing fine. You talk to him; you know how much he’s in demand.”
El chuckled. “Yeah, I do. I’d book him seven nights a week if he’d let me. But seriously, how’s it working out?”
“Good, he’s quiet, neat. Housebroken.”
“He’s not a puppy, Peter.”
“No, he’s better than a puppy. He doesn’t make messes on the carpet.”
“I should hope not. But you like him?”
“Yes, El. I do.” There was something in Peter’s answer that sent off alarm bells. Something in his eyes, the sudden stiffness of his posture.
She pressed him. “You’re telling me the truth – you’re not getting ready to kick him out? I don’t want to have to find him another place.” Or convince Mozzie to let him stay in one of the safe houses indefinitely.
“Since when did you become such a mother hen?”
“You didn’t answer my question. He makes a lot of money for me and I like him – he’s got that bad boy appeal. “
“Thought you liked bad girls.”
“I do, and you’re dodging me.”
Peter held up a hand, giving into her pressure. “Yes, Elizabeth. I like Neal very much. I’ve got no plans on kicking him out. He enjoys the work and even though he’s a convicted felon, he’s remarkably trustworthy.”
“Ah, so he told you.”
“He did.”
“You never asked me about his background.”
“I trusted – I trust – you not to hire an axe murder or a sociopath.”
“And I figured he’d tell you sooner or later.”
“We done here?” Peter finished his coffee and stood up, all long legs and exasperation.
“Yeah, we are. I’ll be in touch, and if Adler calls…”
“Wednesdays only, for now. Keep it low key, keep it light.”
“You got it, sweetie. And don’t forget about Fowler on Friday.”
Peter gave her a look of minor annoyance before leaving.
El knew that the Adler problem wasn’t going to go away. If he called, there was a chance he’d want someone else. But who? Times like this, she felt a little like Jim Phelps from the old Mission: Impossible series, flipping through an album of available players for her own little undercover operation, except that the album was an iPad and hopefully she wouldn’t have to disavow any knowledge of her guy’s actions.
Avery Phillips? Nah, too much of a psychopath. She flicked to the next image.
Ryan Wilkes? Too intense, too inclined to want more than the client was willing to give.
Edward Reilly? Nope, a bit too rough around the edges to appeal to Vincent Adler.
Edward Walker? That was an interesting possibility. He was older, like Peter. Had a way about him. It could be a good match. She hoped she’d get the chance to pair them up.
The last photo in the digital album was Neal Caffrey. She discarded the possibility almost as soon as the idea came to her, but then reconsidered. Adler was a connoisseur and Neal was an artist with very refined tastes. It could be a match. If Vincent did call, she’d ask him if he was interested in someone younger – if just for a change of pace.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: daniel picah,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: sara ellis,
- character: vincent adler,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: case fic,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: first time,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: romance,
- kink: d/s,
- kink: dirty talk,
- kink: dub-con/non-con,
- kink: fuck-or-die,
- kink: leather,
- kink: nipple play,
- kink: prostitution,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/adler,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcpairings,
- year: 2013
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-07-07 07:57 pm (UTC)Fantastic!!!
no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 04:05 pm (UTC)I really hated the thought of leaving El out of the story altogether, and I know what you wanted - so hearing that I was able to recast her so convincingly is music to my ears.
Thank you!